


The Road Less Travelled

by ellaria, H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Round Robin, Touring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellaria/pseuds/ellaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister knew he had a book in him, but not that it would turn into a bestselling one complete with book tour. He could never have guessed the direction his life was going to take, and he definitely never expected to be saddled with a handler like Brienne Tarth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Less Travelled

**Author's Note:**

> ON HIATUS - MAY NOT BE FINSIHED
> 
> Hello and welcome to our little madhouse! The long list of authors for this story is no mistake. We’ve all decided to get together and create a fic where each of us writes one chapter. The story’s premise is indicated on the summary, but there is no premeditated plot; each author will take the story where they wish, without any set genres or content, so prepare to ride a rollercoaster! When a chapter is posted, we’ll all be just as surprised as you. We hope you’ll have as much fun with this project as we already are!
> 
> A huge thank you to all of these amazing authors who agreed to take part, especially considering how insane this idea is! Please remember to take the time to leave some feedback, a lot of work is going into this.
> 
> Without further ado, let the games begin!~Ellaria
> 
>  
> 
> **Chapter 1 by H3L**  
> 

“This is just the thing,” Tyrion said briskly, tipping his wine glass and sloshing the contents into his mouth. “This is just the thing you need.” Jaime’s brother had his stunted legs crossed in front of him, perched as he was on Jaime's marble bar top, leaning over them to pull up the bottle of Arbor Red and refill his glass. 

“How would you know what I need? You haven’t held onto a girlfriend for longer than six months in your entire life,” Jaime replied sourly, the words were muffled as he tugged the leather strap between his teeth. He was trying to unbuckle his gods awful prosthetic hand before he accidentally broke another glass with it, but the buckle wasn’t coming undone. 

“I will have you know that next week is mine and Shae’s one year anniversary. That aside, _I’ve_ never fucked our sweet sister either, but I know it would be a bad idea. Unlike some people I know.” Tyrion was smirking infuriatingly at Jaime, his mismatched eyes glittering with a kind of sick joy at watching his elder brother struggle. Jaime had always been the prodigal son, handsome and tall and the heir to their father’s multi-national conglomerate. Tyrion, on the other hand, was a dwarf. Perhaps that would not have been so bad had their mother not died on the childbed. Their father, Tywin Lannister, was not a forgiving man on the best of days. He never forgave Tyrion for Joanna Lannister’s death, and perhaps worse, he had never let Tyrion forget it either. When Jaime lost his hand, things changed. The great symbol of their family, the Lannister sigil and the mascot for Lanniscorp, was a roaring rampant lion and it was stamped on everything Lannister from gold fillings to electrical circuitry. They were Lions, through and through, but Jaime was a lion maimed. He had grown up on the crags of the Westerlands, in the mountains. He knew what happened to a wounded male lion when he could not defend his place in the pride. He would be run off, and eventually die. Jaime had almost let it happen. 

He’d almost wanted it to. 

“Step-sister. It sounds worse when you say it,” he grumbled at his brother, finally managing to unstrap the leather from his wrist and sighing in relief. He rubbed the raw skin on his red sweater, making little balls of cashmere appear and picking them off with his good hand. Whenever he took off his hand the skin there itched from sweat and leather and torn padding. He learned not to fiddle with it, ignoring his discomfort, but sometimes the best part of Jaime’s day was itching his stump. It was pathetic. 

“It _is_ as bad as it sounds, brother.” Tyrion insisted as Jaime reached across the counter and held his glass out. In the time it had taken him to remove his prosthetic, his brother had already finished half the bottle. “And now it’s over. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Don’t.”

“Did I say bad rubbish?? I meant evil rubbish.” Jaime leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter, staring at his brother blankly with his mouth straightened to a thin line. Tyrion had the good grace to look ashamed. “Look, I know you think you loved her,” he started with his most serious voice. It was nearly a parody of someone who actually knew what they were talking about and reminded Jaime vaguely of his Medieval History professor from KLU. 

“I did love her.” Jaime’s words were accurate, if painful to say. He _did_ love her, but no longer. Not after Robert. Not after Lancel. Not after Osmund and Osney and who knows who else. 

“And I know you think that you will never find another woman like her.” 

“I won’t.” Cersei had been his goddess, powerful and fragile, caustic and gentle all at once. She had sunset in her hair and fresh cut grass in her eyes, her skin had been milky and soft. She had been everything to him, a bottomless pit to pour himself into. He had given her all his love, all his affection, all his devotion and desire, and he had been nothing to her. 

“Yes, maybe you won’t, but you would do well not to,” Tyrion pointed his short finger at Jaime’s nose, tapping him gently with the tip. Jaime shook his head to dislodge his brother’s finger and set down his wine glass, watching Tyrion lean back and take another drink. His dirty blond hair fell away from his face as his head met the dark wood of the pillar at his back. They’d had the conversation before and it seemed that Tyrion was finished with it for the night.

“I can’t believe they published it,” he said thoughtfully, changing the subject as he lifted up the glossy hardcover from beside the half-drunk celebratory wine his brother had brought over. The cover was white, all white, leaving only the gold writing across the top to indicate the books contents. 

“I’m not surprised they published it, I’m surprised you managed to type the thrice damned thing up in the first place. The King Must Die…catchy title. ” Tyrion took the book from Jaime and examined it carefully, turning it over and flipping the back cover open. “This picture is new, I would have expected something a bit older. Weren’t you going to use the photo from that horrendous Lanniscorp Maiden’s Day fundraiser?”

“Brienne thought I looked insincere.” Jaime grabbed the book from his brother and examined the picture. He grinned. “Margaery agreed, of course. Brienne set it up so that I had to sit through an hour long photo shoot with the smallest Tyrell.” Loras had been known to both Tyrion and Jaime for as long as the little flower of Highgarden had been alive. The youngest son of the publishing giant Mace Tyrell, Loras spent much of his youth trailing after the Baratheon brothers, of which Jaime had a tense relationship with based on his step-sister’s marriage to Robert Baratheon. 

“Loras? He’s a photographer now?” Tyrion was gradually sliding down the pillar that he was leaned against, spreading himself across Jaime’s bar top like a drunk, impeccably dressed puddle.

“This week, I think he was designing socks or something last year, wasn’t he?” His brother seemed to ponder this, his head cocked to one side and his eyes rolled up in thought.

“Yes, I think he _was_ designing socks. Who makes a living as a sock designer?” Tyrion focused his attention on Jaime again and smirked knowingly. “You never liked Loras, did you? It’s a wonder you don’t look more… _murderous_.”

“I’m sure I did, but I’m not nearly as frightening as I used to be, brother.” He held up his stump and waved the blunted appendage before Tyrion’s face. His brother laughed, sliding down fully and looking up at Jaime’s face hovering over him. “The little tulip only barked orders at me. This was probably the only time I smiled the entire hour.” Jaime smiled again at the memory. “He said something to Brienne, told her that she had nice hair or some other lie. The woman blushed so red you would mistake her for a stop sign if it weren’t for her eyes.” He couldn’t contain himself, his laughter bubbling up and bursting out of his mouth. “Tyrion, you should have seen her.”

Tyrion reached towards Jaime and grabbed the book back. He tore the book jacket off, discarding the book haphazardly, and examined the photograph. “Is that why you’re staring out of shot? You’re looking at Brienne?” 

“Laughing at her, yes,” he wheezed out, his childish burst subsiding. He grabbed the wine and swilled the dregs around the bottom of the bottle before downing them and dropping down in a squat to examine the cabinet below and the liquor stored there. Emerging with a bottle of gin in his mouth and two glasses in one hand, he met his brother’s eyes. Tyrion had sat up, fixing him with a disconcerting grin. “What?” He asked awkwardly around the bottle between his lips.

“What does Brienne do exactly? For you, I mean,” Tyrion said, sliding forward and taking the bottle from Jaime’s mouth. Jaime grabbed the tonic and set about filling the glasses with ice, gin and a splash of tonic each.

“Lime?” He asked.

“No.” Tyrion leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands and waited patiently for his brother to answer.

“Brienne is my…handler,” Jaime admitted grudgingly. He had only known the girl four weeks but in that time she had proven herself disgustingly capable of handling him. Like a lion, Margaery had said, they would not let him loose on the public without a handler to keep him tame. That was Brienne. The girl was little more than a child, but she was organized, professional, and positively ruthless when she needed to be. And frankly, he thought she was rather ruthless even when she didn’t need to be. In all fairness, he had been difficult at first. Jaime had never been particularly kind or understanding, but neither had he been needlessly cruel. After his maiming he was different, bitter and reclusive. He’d driven away most of his friends, even Cersei. The only members of his family that he had any contact with had been her and Tyrion, and even she had given up on him eventually. Jaime rubbed his eyes and cracked his jaw, trying to will away the rage. She had left him. After all they had been through, after all the lies and sneaking around, she had left him a year ago. It still stung. 

He’d thrown himself into his work, spending his days and nights hunched over his laptop and on the floor of his kitchen eating ice cream from the container. He also drank…a lot. Tyrion was a terrible influence in that respect. His brother always said the world looked better with a belly full of wine. Jaime had to admit, it might not have looked better, he certainly didn’t, but it took the edge off. 

Then came Brienne. 

She was apparently a new hire for Highgarden Publishing and a personal friend of Margaery’s, Jaime was her first client. The girl was an editor by trade but Margaery had begged a personal favor and what Margaery Tyrell wanted, Margaery Tyrell got. That was why she had taken over her father’s publishing house instead of any of her brothers, she was a go-getter. Brienne was a great beast of a woman, larger than any Jaime had ever seen. Standing at least 6’3” she was taller than even him, but couldn’t be more than 23 or 24 years old by his estimation. She was so tall she could be a supermodel if it weren’t for her unfortunate features. The girl had a plain face with pale blond hair that she kept cropped short and broad shoulders that would have looked more natural on a man than a woman. Besides her physical appearance he could have sworn she only owned seven blazers, seven pairs of slacks, and five white shirts that she wore on a rotating schedule, all of which were likely purchased under duress and the watchful eye of Margaery. The shirts were well-cut and the slacks and blazers were stylish, but Brienne hadn’t the faintest clue how to wear them comfortably. Jaime noticed all of this immediately and commenced a campaign of abuse that Brienne had dealt with admirably until last week. 

They had been arguing, as usual, about Jaime’s schedule. He was to start the tour in Dorne and end in King’s Landing, making a full circuit around Westeros in the interim. When Brienne suggested their start in Dorne should be Starfell, Jaime had insisted they start in Sunspear instead. His only argument was visiting the vacation destination’s beaches. His real reason had been even pettier, the demand solely made to irritate her. She had done nothing but annoy him since he was saddled with her and his way of making his irksome handler pay was by being as uncooperative as possible. She made him quit drinking, so he had begun insinuating lewd things about her sex life. She forced him into that stupid photo shoot, so in retaliation he had been surly the entire time. Unfortunately that plan had backfired, once again, _her fault_. She had practically shackled him to the phone to do countless stupid radio interviews and sat beside him giving cues and directing his every move. She might as well have had him in chains. After their argument about Dorne she sat him down and picked up the other line as he called in to the radio station to discuss the recent success of his newly released hardcover, both of them still fuming over their silly bout of wills. Only he hadn't talked at all about the upcoming release, but instead told the radio interviewer about the one time he and Tyrion had ejaculated into a pot of soup served on their step-sister’s 15th birthday. 

Jaime felt inexplicably guilty afterward, and found himself waiting for a phone call that wasn’t coming. Brienne had stormed out of his apartment, fuming, face aflame as she went, and he didn't hear from her again for two days. By the end of the second day he had worn a circular path into the carpet of his living room from drinking and pacing like the caged animal Margaery always equated him to, talking to Tyrion on the phone about anything other than the damned woman who wasn’t speaking to him. He’d toyed with the idea of calling her, but decided against it almost immediately. She would hang up on him, and maybe he’d deserved to be hung up on. Really, she had only been trying to do her job, and he had made it easy on absolutely no one. Instead he’d texted Margaery at 3am to get Brienne’s address. She gave it to him without even asking for an explanation, texting back more quickly than Jaime had expected and leading him to believe that Brienne had in fact told her about the incident and possibly quit her job. Not that he’d thought Margaery would have accepted her resignation. 

He’d gotten in his car and shown up at her tiny doorstep at 4am that morning, cold and sober and furious. Her house, she actually lived in a house, was a one story in the suburbs, white and shabby looking with ornate windows and black shutters. Jaime had been thankful it wasn’t an apartment building or he would have had to find a way to trick her into buzzing him in. He wasn’t sure what he had intended to say, but he pounded on her door until she answered all the same. Her face was pale and nervous, her hair a tangled nest of blond curls matted to her head, and her long t-shirt had been just brushing against the tops of her thighs. She had looked like an overgrown adolescent on the morning of her name day, blurry-eyed and her mouth a tiny ‘o’ of surprise. 

“I’m an asshole,” he’d said, not plaintively but honestly. She nodded in stunned agreement, her face still agape.

Brienne stared for a minute before blinking and slowly shutting her mouth. Her hand was white-knuckled on the door and she swallowed thickly before replying to him quietly. “I thought Margaery told you, I’m-I’m taking a few days off to clear my head.”

Jaime felt incredibly stupid, and still incredibly angry, possible more so for having been made a fool of. “What do you even _do_ that you need to clear your head?” He’d taken a step forward and she took a step back, her response to him strangely thrilling. He’d taken another step, and another, invading her space and kicking her door shut once he was out of the cold. “You spend your days babysitting me,” he’d accused, arms folded over his chest. 

She was silent for some seconds, just meeting his eyes and observing him. In a flash though he saw her face change and her body language shift. Brienne’s features twisted from shock to indignation, her stance widened and she straightened her shoulders. He was almost grinning by the time she started shouting.

“Exactly!” She barked at him. “I am a babysitter, for a grown man!” She had been red-faced and seething, and the feral way her features twisted made the angry beast in his chest purr contentedly at having riled her finally. “You are 34 years old and you spend all of your time eating cereal and making dick jokes, and when you’re not you are a complete bastard! I am trying to _help_ you, my job is to _help_ you, and all you do is mock me!” She wasn’t yelling at him so much as growling by the end, her voice strained and guttural as the words spilled from between her overfull lips. He’d been standing close enough to see the darker pink breadths on those lips, the patches of skin she thoughtlessly tore at when worrying them between her teeth. The habit was no doubt a product from holding back the tirade she had just released. Her chest was heaving and he’d seen the regret wash over her face as it dawned on her that she had just screamed at him in her small foyer. 

“Feel better?” He smirked at the astonished way she gaped at him. He did enjoy shocking her, he found it endlessly amusing, and she did have the most astonishing eyes he’d ever seen. They were much prettier than the rest of her.

“I-yes, I do.” She’d tentatively smiled back at him, head cocked and looking more relaxed than he’d thought he’d ever seen her.

“Good, see you tomorrow morning,” he’d paused, wondering how to complete his sentence. To call her Brienne had still felt too familiar, but Miss Tarth seemed too formal. He’d let his eyes wander to the emblem on her shirt, obviously a souvenir from a Castle Tour in the Stormlands, a knight’s helm in the center with ‘Storm’s End’ scrawled beneath it. “Wench.”

She’d blanched, following his gaze down to her night shirt, lingering on the helm and then sliding past the design, as his own eyes had, and falling on the vast expanse of thigh he was sure she hadn’t intended for him to ever see. She shot her head up and blood infused her cheeks. 

“Goodnight, Jaime,” she’d rushed out, pushing past him and opening her door. Her eyes had been practically begging him to leave, so of course he’d taken his time going. He’d invited her to breakfast, asked to use the loo, and offered to walk her back to bed and tuck her in, all of which she denied as she shoved him bodily off her threshold. 

The next afternoon she’d swept into his flat like a hurricane. She wasn’t dressed in her usual pantsuit but in a pair of jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. The outfit did little more for her figure than the blazers and slacks, but at least she looked comfortable. She’d cornered him as he was about to pour himself a bowl of sugary cereal, taking it from his hand easily. It was the first time she had seen him without his prosthetic hand on. She didn’t look twice at his bare stump. She hurried him into the shower, no longer speaking to him civilly but rolling her eyes and telling him to ‘shut up’ when he protested. When he’d come out, his living room was cleaned and there was eggy-in-a-basket on the green marble counter. She pointed to it like a warden ordering a prisoner out of his cell. Jaime toyed with denying her but he _had_ been hungry. He ate it while watching her spread notebooks out on his coffee table and beginning to highlight itineraries with more enthusiasm than he could possibly muster after being up so late. He’d decided then that he liked her much better that way, she was more honest somehow. He thought she would be much more bearable if she’d stopped pulling her punches, and he had been right.

“Your handler?” Tyrion questioned, his head bobbing funnily as he spoke, his chin pushing against the palm of his hand. “Why didn’t she stop you from telling that awful story on the radio, the one about Cersei’s birthday?” 

“She tried,” he laughed, focusing his attention back on Tyrion and the task at hand.

“Should have tried harder,” Tyrion groaned, eyeing the drink Jaime slid in front of him. “I could have done without the phone call from father, the man was positively rancorous.”

“Big word, little brother.” 

“I know a lot of big words, more than even you, the famous writer.” His brother sat up straighter, taking a swig of his freshly made gin and tonic and wiping his mouth casually with the back of his hand.

“Care to prove it?” 

Tyrion spun around, swinging his legs up and over the counter to land them solidly on one of Jaime’s emerald-colored leather bar chairs, seating himself and then sliding to land on the hardwood floor. “Oh, yes,” he affirmed, already heading to the living room, the slaps of his bare feet muffled by the white shag rug. He pulled out a cardboard box from its place beside the TV in the entertainment center and tossed it easily onto the table. Sitting down, cross-legged, he beckoned to Jaime. “Prepare yourself to lose,” Tyrion crowed from the floor.

“We’ll see about that!”

 

“Oh, Gods, what happened?” Jaime cracked an eye open. Judging by the light streaming in through his window he guessed it had to be at least 10 am. Dust motes were floating lazily in his vision and there was a slight breeze in the stale air. Last year he would have been just returning from his morning run about now. He sucked in a rough breath, his mouth thick and filmy. Just the thought of running hurt. He turned his head, the action slow like molasses. His mind felt like it was filled with cotton and his throat was paper dry. He licked his lips and observed the living room from his open door. His clothes were strewn about the floor of the hallway. “Jaime,” the voice from the living room wafted again towards him, sounding more irritated than it had before. 

“Oh, hello,” he heard Tyrion say. Jaime couldn’t yet see his brother, assuming he was still on the couch, but Brienne lumbered into view just in time for Jaime to witness her spin around and shriek at the piece of furniture as if it had grown a muzzle and teeth. 

“Brienne, stop squawking, that’s my brother, Tyrion. Tyrion, Brienne Tarth.” He thought he had yelled but his voice sounded low and gravelly. 

“A pleasure,” Tyrion said, and Jaime could picture his smile as he introduced himself from behind the back of the couch. Brienne extended her hand and Jaime could see Tyrion’s arm stretch into view and shake her own briskly. 

“Now that we’ve had introductions, Wench, make breakfast!”

“I’m not your maid,” she groused, turning her head to stare disdainfully at him prone on his bed, his head at the wrong end and his arms hanging off the corner, his feet propped up on the down pillows. 

He leveled his most disarming smile at her and was gratified with a blush as she huffed and turned away from him, heading around the bar and towards the kitchen. She was still somewhat uncomfortable with the casual way he regarded her, which he found refreshing. He heard her groan loudly when she entered the kitchen. Jaime pushed himself up and off his bed, stopping for a moment to examine the stubble on his face in the hallway mirror, and headed her way. Brienne was already frying bacon when he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. He allowed himself a smile around the top of the bottle as she took him in, naked but for his crimson boxer briefs and the water in his hand. She stuttered and flushed and turned back to the pan, holding the expensive and under-utilized flipper like a sword to protect her virtue. 

“Good morning, Brienne,” he purred. 

“Put some clothes on, Jaime.” He laughed, having achieved his desired response, and left her to her busy work, heading towards his brother and cursing when he stepped on a little wooden square. He grabbed up the offending board game piece, it was a ‘B.’ How appropriate, he thought, turning to look at Brienne one last time. 

“Tyrion! Come pick up these scrabble pieces, they’re all over the floor!”

“You pick them up, brother, you’re right there,” Tyrion groaned from the sofa, just a disembodied voice from Jaime’s vantage point.

“I will not. You threw them all over in the first place. You should have picked the damned things up last night, they smart like a bitch.” He sauntered into the living room and plunked himself down on one of the white leather chairs across from his brother.

“It was your fault, if you had just admitted that Pro-D wasn’t a word then I wouldn’t have thrown the board. Cretin.”

“Pro-D, did I say that?” Jaime tipped his head back, resting it on the curved back of the chair.

“You said it was the ingredient in shampoo that made hair silky smooth,” Tyrion teased loudly enough for Brienne to hear, which she did judging by the giggle coming from her direction.

“Gods, how much did we drink? I don’t even use that Targaryan Pro-D shit.” He stared absently at the ceiling, admiring the pock marks he’d accidentally put in the drywall by swinging his antique sword. That had been before he’d lost his hand and gained his laptop. 

“Most of the gin, all of the wine,” Tyrion answered, his voice muffled as he’d turned his head into the cushion beneath him. “So, she cooks.” He didn’t say who, but Jaime didn’t need him to. He was obviously talking about Brienne. Jaime had been wondering how long it would take until Tyrion spouted off his unwanted opinion on the girl.

“Sometimes,” he replied, giving his brother nothing to work with.

“She’s…” Tyrion trailed off, lifting his arm up limply and gesturing towards the ceiling.

“Yes, she is quite tall,” he agreed, and waited. Tyrion, surprisingly, said nothing else. Jaime was grateful, he didn’t feel like defending her just then, he was too hungover to explain their strange working relationship coherently.

“Breakfast,” she said smugly, dropping not one but two plates on the coffee table in front of him and Tyrion. The plates clattered dangerously, jarring the crispy bacon and fluffy, yellow scrambled eggs. She left and returned with two large glasses of water and four paracetamols. She unceremoniously dumped them beside the plates, sighing.

“Jaime, we leave tomorrow morning. Get what you need together today. I’m going to be here to pick you up at 8 am. Do _not_ keep me waiting. Understood?” She was standing before him, a towering leviathan in denim and cotton, her hair freshly washed and combed and curling wetly under at the tips. 

“I love you too, Wench,” he sighed, covering his eyes with his right forearm, the scar tissue of his stump scratching against his day-old stubble.

She grumbled something under her breath as she went about laying papers out on his bar top and picking up the stray scrabble pieces she found on the floor, nestled like little landmines in the rug.

Tyrion lifted his head up momentarily to observe her before turning over and letting his head roll back. He reached out from his nest of blankets on the couch and snatched a piece of bacon up, popping it in his mouth and moaning. He smiled, licking his lips and snatching up another piece when he’d devoured the first. 

“Oh, brother, I _like_ her.” 

Jaime lolled his head up to observe his brother, bacon hanging from Tyrion’s mouth like a cigar. “You would,” was all Jaime got out before his phone beeped. It was sitting on the rug, face down beside the upturned Scrabble board. When he picked it up the phone stuck unpleasantly to his hand. He had a text message. “All set, ser,” he read aloud. “What in seven hells does that mean?”

“Who was it?” Tyrion asked around a mouthful of eggs.

“Don’t eat lying down,” Jaime admonished without thinking, “you’ll choke.” Tyrion struggled and sat up, huffing at his older brother.

“Who is it from?”

Jaime stared at the name, trying to figure out why Pia would be texting him. There were no outgoing messages from him but his call history showed that he called her at 2:23am that morning and talked to her for 4 minutes and 13 seconds. “It’s from Pia,” he said, sounding puzzled.

“Who is that? Another girl you’ve been hiding from me? Does this one cook as well?” He asked eagerly, tossing the pills Brienne left into his mouth and gulping down his water.

“No, Pia works for Brienne. She’s with Harrenhal Logistics, the company that Highgarden uses for booking and accommodations. I called her last night, apparently.” He scratched his chin and shrugged, throwing the phone back on the table dismissively. “Hmm, that’s weird.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this beginning and stick around to see how this crazy thing is going to develop!


End file.
